


this is us colliding

by freefallvertigo



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Angst, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24553786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freefallvertigo/pseuds/freefallvertigo
Summary: "I wouldn't have survived without you."a series of thasmin one-shots, drabbles, and tumblr prompts
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 24
Kudos: 120





	1. you had that in your pocket the whole time?

**Author's Note:**

> basically this fic is just gonna be a dumping ground for prompts i get and any other miscellaneous one shot/drabble ideas that spring to mind. some will probs end up being smutty but i'll mark explicit chapters as such.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: “you had that in your pocket the whole time” for @i-hate-empty-pockets on tumblr
> 
> angst, comfort

Cheeks wet with tears and lips crusted with salt, Yaz let her head fall against the Doctor’s shoulder when — after two long hours — she at last gathered enough strength to pull away from her full body embrace without believing she’d somehow fade into nonexistence the moment they disentangled. They leaned against the headboard and the Doctor pressed a kiss to the top of Yaz’s head.

“I love your bedroom, Yaz,” the Doctor mumbled against her hair. “Thought about it a lot while I were away.”

Away. 

She kept saying away. She never said in prison. She never said alone. She never said hurting. She just said — away. As if she’d taken a holiday or gone on a trip; as if her pallid complexion, hollow cheeks, and the dark bags under her eyes didn’t tell Yaz everything she needed to know.

“I thought about the stars on your ceiling,” she went on. “I thought about your teddy bears. Your noisy bed springs. I thought about the dent in the wall where I smacked my head ‘cos I were too busy tryna show off with your Rubik’s cube to pay any mind to where I were goin’. I spent whole days here, Yaz — in my head, with my eyes closed. You were always here, too.” 

Yaz tried to stop herself from succumbing to another bout of sobbing; she didn’t think her ribs could take it. “I don’t know how you made it out there,” she croaked. “How you lasted for so long.”

“Like I said, you were always with me.” 

The Doctor reached into her coat pocket without taking her arm from around Yaz’s shoulders and pulled out a dog-eared polaroid picture saturated with grime and dirty fingerprints. Yaz recognised it instantly. It was a memento from a road trip they’d taken across America. They were by the lake at Big Sur with huge, summery grins plastered onto their faces — the likes of which Yaz hadn’t ever thought she’d be able to imitate again — and eyes so much younger than they looked now. 

Yaz trailed her finger across the edge of the photo. It had lost its gloss; its shine. “You had that in your pocket the whole time?”

“To be fair, they tried to take it from me,” revealed the Doctor. “Gave up when I detailed exactly what I intended to do to whoever took it from me when I finally got out. Made most of the words up, but spooked ‘em pretty good.” 

“You did that for a picture?”

“I did that for you. Nobody takes Yasmin Khan away from me.”

Yaz’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s a bit damaged, now,” she mused. “Can hardly make us out. Maybe we should take another?”

“Oh — yes, please. A thousand. And I’ll stick ‘em in my pockets and down my socks and up my sleeves. D’you reckon the liver’s a good hiding place? Only for the extra special ones, mind.” The Doctor pulled Yaz a fraction tighter into her side when she breathed a soft laugh. “Then, no matter what, you’re always with me.”

“I’d like that.”

The Doctor peered down at Yaz and the sobriety on her face suffused her voice when she spoke next. “I wouldn’t have survived without you, Yaz.”

Daring to brave a rawness Yaz wasn’t accustomed to seeing the Doctor exhibit, Yaz looked up and met her gaze. They held one another in the captivity of their eyes for a long moment, until Yaz caught a fresh tear tracking the Doctor’s cheek with a soft kiss. 

“Hang on.” 

While refusing to let go of the Doctor entirely, Yaz hung off the side of the bed with one hand still in hers and rummaged around in the drawers of her nightstand until her hand wrapped around clunky plastic. She sat up and blew a layer of dust off the Polaroid camera, and the rainbow stripe beneath the lens made her chest ache for reasons too obvious to recount.

“Ready?” she asked, turning the camera around in her hands so that the lens faced them. 

“Ready,” said the Doctor.

By the time the film developed in Yaz’s palm, the Doctor had her arms around Yaz’s waist and her chin resting on her shoulder. They both looked down as the image came into view and Yaz chuckled under her breath. 

“You’re not even looking at the camera,” she laughed. 

Indeed, the photo revealed Yaz beaming at the camera — and the Doctor watching Yaz, as if she were an apparition that might dissolve the moment she so much as blinked. They both fell silent for a moment and the smile slipped from Yaz’s face. 

Yaz turned her head. “Did you wanna take another one?” 

“Nope.” The Doctor squeezed Yaz a little tighter and kissed the back of her neck. “It’s perfect. Defo liver worthy. No one’ll find it there.”

“Maybe you should hide it in your hearts instead,” cracked Yaz, leaning into the Doctor and allowing the double beat of her pulse to permeate her bones and swaddle her in warmth. 

The Doctor laughed lightly against her cheek. “There’s no room, Yaz,” she said softly, grazing the tip of her pinky across the photograph; across a smile immortalised in sheeny two dimension. “They’re both already full.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt me on tumblr @freefallthirteen


	2. biting (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "biting"
> 
> smut, jealousy

“Doctor, now’s really not the — _mmph_.”

The back of Yaz’s head knocked against the door when the Doctor crashed into her — lips colliding and teeth knocking together clumsily. Yaz grunted against her mouth. The kiss was messy, angry, impassioned. Unthinking, she pulled the Doctor closer by her suspenders, only for the Doctor to grab her wrists and pin them to the wood. 

“Babe, _what_ has gotten into you?” Yaz breathed, pinned flush between the Doctor and the door, the Doctor’s lips and tongue on a mission to leave their mark against the soft flesh of her throat. “Aren’t we supposed to be running? Troops with guns, and all that?”

When she looked up, the Doctor’s eyes appeared black in the low light. A lone bulb hung from the roof of the cramped storage closet, swaying softly from side to side and prompting shadows to leap against their skin. “Commander Lee’s pretty, isn’t she?” goaded the Doctor, fast hands dropping Yaz’s wrists in favour of hastily popping open the buttons of her jeans. “Funny, too, right?”

“Oh, for — is that what this is?” Yaz shook her head. “I were tryna distract her! You _told_ me to!”

“Well, _now_ —” the Doctor slipped her hand beneath Yaz’s waistband— “I’m tellin’ you to be be quiet.” 

Before Yaz could further defend herself, the Doctor shut her up with another kiss; hand working frantically between her thighs all the while. She hiked one of Yaz’s legs around her hip to better angle herself. Yaz, unapologetically enslaved by the Doctor’s possessive whimsies, let any and all arguments shrivel up and die in the torrid heat of their mingling breath. Her following moan was abruptly interrupted when the Doctor sunk her teeth into the fragile skin of her lower lip.

“ _Ow_ — fuck.”

Eyes gleaming something wicked, the Doctor dragged the injured lip between her teeth. Yaz watched. Hypnotised. Chest heaving. There was something intrinsically maddening about the Doctor’s occasional ferality. God, but Yaz was gone for her. 

“Who do you belong to?” urged the Doctor against her mouth, dexterous fingers working tight circles against her. “Say it.” 

Apparently, Yaz was in the mood for trouble. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

Something dark, a black shadow, passed over the Doctor’s face. Yaz’s heart stopped. Or, it would have, were her pulse not tripling at the mercy of the Doctor’s relentless fingers. “Wrong answer, Khan.” She ducked her head to Yaz’s throat. Rather than kiss her, she clamped down with her teeth. Her respondent yelp was muffled by the Doctor’s free palm smothering her mouth. And yet, somehow, the sharp pain only drove Yaz further to the edge. She found herself slipping further from clarity and coherence. 

A million miles away, she heard the rattle of semi-automatic gunfire and somehow that didn’t even register; somehow that was the least important thing in the universe when compared with the sensation of the Doctor’s hand between her thighs and her teeth against her neck. “Who do you belong to?” repeated the Doctor gruffly, speaking the words right into her ear.

“You,” blurted Yaz, worried that the Doctor might deny her the divine apotheosis she was seconds away from otherwise. “You — I belong to you, Doctor. _God_ , please…”

“Let go,” grunted the Doctor.

And when she captured Yaz in another kiss, when her fingers persisted against her with dogged perseverance and she bit down on her lip, Yaz did exactly that. She let go. 

Yaz’s body submitted to ecstasy; to the perfect paradox of pain and pleasure. Her muscles convulsed and she trembled against the Doctor, whose arm curled around her thigh was the sole thing keeping her legs from giving out and whose bruising kiss muted her throaty moan. As Yaz’s muscles began to relax piecemeal and she drifted back toward cognisance, the Doctor withdrew.

“Well that were… something,” Yaz heaved, buttoning up her jeans.

The Doctor pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed a spot of blood from Yaz’s lip, shooting her girlfriend an infuriatingly self-satisfied smirk. She wiped her fingers and pocketed it. “Back to saving the world, eh?” She reached past Yaz for the door handle and, just before she slipped out through the open door, muttered, “I really hope Commander Lee turns out to be the bad guy.” 


	3. if you insist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "if you insist" for anon
> 
> fluff

“Honestly, Yaz, I’ve got it.”

“I really don’t think you have.”

“I used to wear ‘em all the bloody time a couple of faces ago! It should be muscle memory!”

“New muscles. New memories.”

The Doctor scowled at her reflection in the mirror, yanking her bow tie off her neck in frustration for the fourth time in a row. “It must be broken!”

Yaz breathed a laugh, coming up from behind to offer her hand. “Can you please just let me help?”

“Oh, if you insist!”

The Doctor turned around and, when Yaz reached around her neck to loop the silk around her collar, tried not to blush at their proximity. Yaz’s eyes darted up to meet the Doctor’s, fell for an agonising fraction of a second over her lips, and then returned to the work at hand. 

“See, if you just loop it like this…” muttered Yaz. A slight crease had formed between her brows and the Doctor idly wondered what Yaz might think were she to press a soft kiss to it. “There! Take a look.”

The Doctor spun around to gauge herself in the mirror. A perfect bow. She adjusted it with a smug smirk. “Still suits me.”

“Not sure why you had hundreds of bow ties lying around,” mused Yaz, eyeing the collection spread out on the bed. It had taken a torturously long time for the Doctor to choose one and Yaz had fretted that they might miss the entire intergalactic opera — before the Doctor reminded her that they were in a time machine. 

“Bow ties are cool.” She turned around. Yaz was still standing _so_ close to her. So close she could smell her floral perfume, the lingering scent of peppermint toothpaste; her every potent pheromone. The Doctor swallowed tightly and Yaz watched the bob of her throat. “Thanks for the help, Yaz. Usually be able to manage, but — guess it’s the nerves.”

“The opera’s making you nervous?”

“No. You are.”

Yaz blinked and her expression changed — from mild amusement to blatant surprise. “I make you nervous?”

“First date, and all that. I wanna get it right. There’s always so much to worry about, isn’t there?” the Doctor laughed anxiously, pulling at her collar. “Picking a decent venue, wearing the right bow tie, choosing when to kiss you, how to—“

Yaz put a finger to the Doctor’s lips and her eyes crossed when she looked down at it — confused. “Maybe I can help you with one of those things.”

“Yeah?” the Doctor asked, lips moving against her finger.

“Yeah,” breathed Yaz. She tugged the Doctor in by her suspenders and, right after they both exchanged the most timid of smiles, pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. 

The Doctor felt each of her nerves go numb. She sighed against Yaz. Pretty Yaz. Brave Yaz. Excellent kisser Yaz. The kiss ended all too soon but the Doctor didn’t mind when Yaz rested her forehead against hers and let her hands fall to her hips. 

“Better?” she asked.

“Let’s see, shall we?”

At that, the Doctor abruptly pulled away, tugged her bow tie loose (much to Yaz’s obvious chagrin) and then closed her eyes and tried again. When she opened them and spared a glance in the mirror, she’d tied an immaculate bow. The Doctor grinned. 

“Still got it.”


	4. well, that's tragic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "well, that's tragic" + evil doppelganger!13 for @jeyfeather1234
> 
> angst, hurt/comfort, confessions of love, descriptions of minor injuries

The Doctor’s study was trashed by the time Yaz found her there. 

Not trashed enough, apparently.

Yaz tentatively eased the door open a crack just in time to see the Doctor lunge a paperweight across the room. It shattered with a deafening crack against the wall by Yaz’s head and she flinched. The Doctor’s eyes landed heavy on her. She didn’t apologise, or shy away, or even blink. She just looked at her as if to say, _welcome to the show_. As if to say, _your Doctor isn’t here right now. Just me. Sorry to disappoint._

“Hey,” Yaz said softly. She stepped over broken glass and upturned chairs on her way to the Doctor.

“You should be in bed, Yaz,” came the Doctor’s curt reply. She turned her back to her and gripped the lip of her desk, muscles in her back tensing through her jumper. “It’s been a long day.”

“I just…” Yaz’s hand hovered centimetres from the Doctor’s back before dropping, useless, to her side. She swallowed. “D’you wanna talk about it?”

* * *

_“You don’t have to do this,” urged the Doctor, handcuffs straining against the back of the chair as she leaned forwards. “I can help you! I can teach you!”_

_With mild curiosity, the Doctor’s mirror image watched the steady drip, drip, drip of a leaky pipe overhead. At the Doctor’s desperate pleas, her gaze fell and her face twisted into something mortally sinister. She grinned like the devil. Folding her arms over the back of the chair she was straddling, she afforded the Doctor a cynical laugh._

_“Teach me?” she sneered. “Teach me what? I am you, Doctor. I’m the best of you.”_

_What the Doctor dared not say was that, actually, she was the worst of her. Somebody had wanted to turn the Doctor into a weapon — and they had succeeded. Only, they hadn’t predicted that when they stole the Doctor’s DNA and attempted to forge a double without morals, that they would never be able to control her. They’d never be able to reign her in; keep her to heel. They’d played god and their creation was a devout disbeliever._

_“I’ve nothin’ to learn from you. If anythin’, it’s the other way around. Don’t you get tired of bein’ so bloody righteous all the time? I know you do. I know your rage. It runs through my veins, too. And it burns, Doctor. Doesn’t it? It burns.”_

_The Doctor refused to take the bait. “I can show you the universe! We can — we can travel together. You and me.”_

_The doppelganger dangled her pilfered TARDIS key in front of her face and it swung like a pendulum before them. “What makes y’think I need you for that?”_

* * *

Perching against her desk, the Doctor — god, she looked so immeasurably tired — raked a hand through her hair. 

Yaz’s lips parted in shock. “Doctor, your hand!”

With glazed eyes, the Doctor studied the hand in question. One of her knuckles was sliced open and a healthy stream of dark blood oozed out of it. She didn’t even react. She just stared. Yaz steeled herself. It looked like, tonight, she would have to be the strong one. For both of them. 

“C’mon.” 

Braving the lightest touch at the small of her back, Yaz guided a heartbreakingly passive Doctor to the bathroom. She held the Doctor’s hand under the faucet until much of the blood had circled the drain, leaving behind a deep gash with a couple of splinters of glass still embedded in the wound. The Doctor slumped like a dead weight onto the edge of the bath while Yaz retrieved a first aid kid. 

When the Doctor eventually spoke, it was so quiet Yaz had to strain to pick up on what she was saying. “She was just… she were lost,” she croaked. “She needed guidance. I could’ve helped her.”

“She wouldn’t have stopped, Doctor,” said Yaz, plucking the last fragments of glass from the Doctor’s hand with a pair of tweezers and depositing them into the sink. “You heard her.”

Something dark eclipsed the Doctor’s eyes when she regarded Yaz, then. “She was me.”

Yaz didn’t shrink away. “She wasn’t. Not even close.”

“The worst parts of myself, maybe — but she were still me.” The Doctor clenched her trembling fists, heedless of Yaz and her antiseptic wipes. “I thought I could get through to her. I thought she and I…”

When the Doctor trailed off, red sand and rubble poured from her mouth instead and Yaz didn’t have to be telepathic to know where she’d gone. Her mind was in Gallifrey. Her head was a graveyard. 

The Doctor never spoke much of the Master, but Yaz knew they’d been friends in the beginning; that the Doctor had once had so much hope that the two of them, the last of their kind, might still find a way forward beyond the centuries of betrayal and devastating loss. When she lost him, she lost that hope. Yaz couldn’t begin to fathom the crippling loneliness in that fact. It was no wonder she wanted that thing to be like her; it was no wonder she mourned it so deeply.

“She were in pain, Yaz,” trembled the Doctor, “and it was my pain.”

Delicately dressing the Doctor’s hand in gauze and bandages, Yaz chewed her lip anxiously. “If she were — if she had all the same memories as you, does that mean what she said were true?”

* * *

_“What do you want from me, then?”_

_“Well…” The doppelganger smirked. “I were gonna wait for your little pet to show up like the hero y’made her believe she is. Runnin’ a little late, isn’t she? Maybe she doesn’t care about you as much as y’think, eh?”_

_At that, the Doctor went still. Still like the world before a terrible storm. “Don’t you touch her,” she warned — low and restrained and oozing in unspoken threat. “Don’t you dare.”_

_“Or what?” Rising to her feet, the Doctor’s double rounded her chair and crouched down in front of the Doctor. She sat on her haunches and steepled her fingers, studying the Doctor’s face with a tilt of her head. “You love her, don’t you?”_

_The Doctor said nothing, only gritted her teeth._

_“Well, that’s tragic, isn’t it? Really. I pity you, Doctor,” she spat. “Fallin’ for a bloody human, of all ungodly things.” When her doppelganger paused, then, the Doctor saw herself in the way her eyes lit up with an epiphany. It filled her with dread. “Ooh, maybe I’ll keep her around. What d’you think? Reckon I’d stand a better chance with her than you ever did?”_

_The Doctor surged forwards and her captor sprang back with a maniacal laugh. But the impulsive reaction only spurred her on further._

_“‘Cause, let’s be honest, she could never love someone like you,” she drawled, trailing a fingertip across the Doctor’s cheekbone and then digging them harshly into her flexing jaw. “Damaged beyond repair. So bloody righteous in one breath and so full of rage and agony in the next. You’re unlovable, Doctor. And right now, at the end of it all, you’re alone. It’s just you and me — and I’m just another you. Christ, isn’t that the saddest thing you’ve ever heard?”_

_Movement in the shadows drew the Doctor’s eye. Weaving around the machinery and darting ever closer with every second — Yaz. She locked eyes with the Doctor and held a finger to her lips._

* * *

The Doctor pulled away from Yaz’s touch. “Gonna have to be a bit more specific,” she mumbled, inspecting the meticulous dressing on her hand.

“Are you gonna make me say it, Doctor? Really?”

Two sets of eyes, each locked and loaded with the ammunition of their own unarticulated secrets, stared one another down across the endless inches of space between them. The Doctor was the first to break. 

“Oh, _fine_. Fine! You wanna know the truth, Yaz? She were right. About everythin’. Every word she said. Including… including _that_ ,” confessed the Doctor, getting to her feet and taking a short step to eliminate the distance separating their bodies. With teary eyes and trembling lips, she grabbed Yaz by her face. “You should run. Run — and never stop runnin’. To be loved by the Doctor is to be marked by death. I’m not joking, Yaz. Not even a little bit. There’s one way this ends, and it isn’t with a happily ever after. You saw it for yourself. It only ever ends in death when you’re with me. In grief. That’s who I am.”

* * *

_“Not to matter — s’pose I’ll just have to find Yaz myself. Shouldn’t be too hard, considerin’ I know where she lives,” taunted the doppelganger, her every word serrated like a blade. She paced backwards and forwards in front of the Doctor. “Want me to pass along a message for her, when I find her? How about — Yasmin Khan, I loved you ‘til my dyin’ breath?”_

_She stopped to gauge the Doctor’s reaction. When the Doctor offered none, she deflated a little._

_“Nah, you’re right. Too on the nose, eh?” After a moment’s deliberation, she snapped her fingers. “Got it! Yasmin Khan—”_

_“Yasmin Khan,” interrupted the Doctor, voice breaking with every syllable, “just get it over with. Please.”_

_“Well, that’s a bit rubbish,” scoffed the doppelganger. “Get what over—”_

_Yaz moved as a ghost moves. But a shadow herself, she peeled away from the darkness and slunk up behind the oblivious clone. The Doctor didn’t want to watch, but how could she look away when Yaz brandished the life-gem deactivator like a blade and drove it into her doppelganger’s back? It slotted into the jewel between her hearts with a noise like the squealing of rusty gears and the unholy imitation dropped to her knees. The Doctor released a strangled cry._

* * *

“That’s _not_ who you are, Doctor,” choked Yaz. “I refuse to believe that.”

“Well, then you’re an idiot!” the Doctor shouted around a sob. She dropped her forehead against Yaz’s as tears streamed freely from her eyes. No sense in holding back the flood, now, supposed Yaz. “Please, please don’t let me be selfish with you. Don’t let me love you. ‘Cause I will. I’ll love you ‘til it kills you. That’s who I am; I can’t stop myself. I can’t — I can’t let you go. So, I need you to do it. I need you to make that choice. Put yourself first, Yaz. Get out while you still can.”

But Yaz could never, would never, do that. They both knew it.

“I won’t leave you behind, Doctor. Ever,” she asserted, wrapping her hands around the wrists in front of her face as if the Doctor might disappear otherwise; as if she might fold in on herself and never reemerge from such lightless depths. “‘Cause who will you become when you’re alone? Her?” sniffled Yaz with a shake of her head. “I’d never let that happen to you.”

The Doctor squeezed her eyes shut, her every jagged breath leaving microscopic paper cuts on Yaz’s lips. “And what about you? What happens to you?”

“I love you, Doctor,” Yaz said simply. “If it kills me to admit it — fine. I’d rather die than let you go.”

“Don’t say that.” The Doctor pulled her forehead away from Yaz’s and looked frantically between each of her eyes; deadly sincerity raging like a forest fire across every inch of her face. “Don’t you ever, ever say that to me.”

Yaz smiled sadly. “But it’s the truth, Doctor,” she breathed with a melancholy shrug. “It’s the truth.”

And it was.

If the Doctor truly killed everybody she loved, then Yaz would be honoured to die by her hand.

* * *

_The instant Yaz freed the Doctor of her binds, she dropped to her knees beside her dying clone — who reached for her. Who looked scared. In her last moments, she was frightened. And she was alone._

_“I’m so sorry,” wept the Doctor, cradling an already pallid face in her useless hands. “I’m so, so sorry.”_

_“You — you’re inside of me, Doctor,” quivered the doppelganger, the light behind her eyes already beginning to wane and her weak hold on the Doctor’s shirt failing. The last words she spoke before dying in the Doctor’s arms were, “and I will always be inside of you.”_


	5. can you please put your shirt back on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "can you please put your shirt back on?" by @glitteribbur on tumblr
> 
> fluff, hugging, very minor nudity lol

“Is this the leaf you were on about?”

“Oh, excellent! Hand it over.”

Yaz passed the Doctor the waxy leaf she’d been sent to find and proceeded to watch, with an appropriate measure of confusion, as she rubbed it behind both her ears and then against each of her pulse points. The tip of her tongue stuck out of the side of her mouth — dyed bright blue by the wild berries she’d been munching on moments prior. All vital steps in counteracting the venom in her system, apparently.

“Nasty stuff, the venom of a growling eel. Every measure of venom contains a toxin-worm that explodes once it gets to your heart. Hearts, in this case,” the Doctor explained. “This bugger’s fast. Were in my ankle a minute ago and he’s already at my hip. Honestly, the cheek!” 

“Has that stuff not helped?” asked Yaz, gesturing at the crumbling leaf the Doctor had since tossed to one side.

“It’s helped with the venom itself — as for the toxin-worm, there’s one quick fix I can think of before my whole body’s flooded with paralytic toxins.” 

And then the Doctor began to remove her shirts.

“Doctor! What on _earth_ are you doing?” shrilled Yaz, not quite averting her gaze fast enough to avoid a healthy glimpse of toned abs and the underside of a sports bra.

“Counteracting the poison.” The Doctor shot Yaz a puzzled frown. “What’s that face for?”

“Uh, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure undressing in the middle of the rainforest isn’t gonna kill your toxin-worm!” Yaz turned her back. Partly, this was to afford the Doctor her privacy; partly, it was to hide the colour creeping into her cheeks. “Can you _please_ put your shirt back on?”

“I need body heat, Yaz. I need _you._ ”

“You what?”

“Specifically, I need a hug.”

“You need a hug?” Yaz mused that she could have told the Doctor that herself. Frankly, she’d never known anymore more in need of one than the Doctor. She hadn’t thought that to be an issue they needed to address right this instant, but the Doctor’s timing was always interesting.

“Humans — hot blooded lot. Like bloody furnaces,” remarked the Doctor. “A nice long hug ought to smother the toxin-worm.”

“Are you serious?” Yaz dared a peek over her shoulder, taking great care to keep her eyes north of the Doctor’s neck.

“Deadly! Can feel the little bastard making his way into my chest cavity and — oh!” The Doctor pressed her hand to her chest and grimaced her discomfort. “Yep. He found the secret door. Any day now, Yaz.” 

“But you don’t have a shirt on,” Yaz said dumbly, and cursed herself for her lack of tact.

“Yeah, you really should remove yours, too. Better if it’s skin on skin action. Conducts easier,” the Doctor advised unabashedly. 

Yaz hesitated.

“Oh, humans and their bloody modesty!” groused the Doctor, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “I can close my eyes if y’like, Yaz, but I’d really rather not let this thing get to my hearts if I can help it.” 

“Okay, okay!”

Eyes scrunched shut, the Doctor wriggled her hips jerkily from side to side as — presumably — the toxin worm made its way deeper into her chest. Yaz stripped off her shirt and draped it over a nearby branch. 

“Right, um, so I just—”

“Y’never hugged anyone before, Yaz?” the Doctor asked without opening her eyes. “It’s dead easy. You just put your arms—”

“God, you’re insufferable,” Yaz chided around an eye roll the Doctor couldn’t see but could probably hear in the tone of her voice. “Here.”

Yaz wrapped her arms around the Doctor’s waist, bare forearms sliding across the cool expanse of skin at her back. The muscles in Yaz’s stomach briefly tensed at the first point of contact; she’d forgotten that Time Lords ran a lot colder than humans. The Doctor hummed. She wound her own arms around Yaz and nestled her chin deeper into the crook of her neck and Yaz _definitely_ wasn’t thanking the sky for the existence of growling eels and toxin-worms.

“Uh, how long do we have to…”

“Few minutes should do the trick. I’ll know when it’s goners ‘cos my breath’ll start to taste like strawberries.”

For a long moment, they stood locked in a silent embrace. The harmony of chirping birds, a balmy breeze weaving through the leaves, and small fauna darting amongst the branches all had nothing on the cacophony of Yaz’s own racing heart. Although, with their chests fastened so close together, she couldn’t say with certainty that the Doctor’s hearts weren’t kicking up their own storm alongside hers. 

The Doctor swallowed audibly. “Quite nice this, isn’t it?”

“It’s — it’s something.”

“Hugging Yasmin Khan. Brilliant.”

Yaz blew a lock of the Doctor’s hair away from her face. “Y’know, you don’t have to wait for toxin-worms to attack your body to ask for a hug, Doctor.”

“You mean I can hug you whenever I want?”

When Yaz laughed, she felt the Doctor respond in kind; prominent ribs brushing against her own. “Always,” she said. “I mean, maybe next time we can do it with our shirts on.”

“If we must.”

Yaz’s skin began to burn several degrees hotter. She was most certainly a furnace right now — that toxin-worm didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. Less so when the Doctor began to trace absent patterns on Yaz’s back.

“I think I’d really like that,” she muttered. “You’re an excellent hugger. Best I’ve had in…” Trailing off, the Doctor began to lift each of her fingers in turn from Yaz’s skin as she counted on them. Was she counting days? Weeks? Months? Yaz wouldn’t have been surprised if it were longer. 

“You only have to ask, Doctor,” she insisted.

The Doctor squeezed a little tighter. “Think I might hold you to that one, Yaz.”

And so they stayed there in that calm embrace, sweaty bodies stuck together, long after the Doctor happily sighed a summer sweet whiff of strawberry.


	6. getting caught (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "getting caught" for @yasminkhxns 
> 
> mild smut

“What — what about your family?”

“They’re out.”

“Aw, no Yaz’s mum?”

“Please, don’t talk about my mum right now.”

“Sorry.” 

“Can you — _god_ , you wear way too many layers.”

Grinning puckishly, the Doctor yanked her shirts off by the back of the collar and then closed the distance between she and Yaz once more, fastening her lips to her neck and backing her up until her thighs hit the sofa. With a gentle shove to her shoulders, Yaz fell back against the plush fabric and the Doctor climbed on top of her. Hovering over her, she gave Yaz’s skin a reprieve from her doting lips to gaze down at her girlfriend; to smooth the pad of her thumb over her lower lip. 

“Y’really are lovely, Yasmin Khan,” she sighed happily. 

“Shut up,” Yaz mumbled self-consciously, averting her eyes as she drummed her fingers against the Doctor’s hips.

“I mean it,” insisted the Doctor, cupping Yaz’s chin and prompting her to meet her gaze. “You’re lovely.” 

Yaz’s throat bobbed. “Yeah, well — actions speak louder, babe.” 

“That, they do,” beamed the Doctor.

She wasted no more time. The Doctor captured Yaz’s lips with her own — every exchange of saliva another heady dose of the most intoxicating drug — and trailed a hand down her abdomen until it located her zipper. Making fast work of that, she dove her hand under the waistband of her jeans and pressed two fingers against her. Yaz sighed against her mouth and the Doctor smirked. 

“Didn’t realise how worked up you were,” she simpered. “That all for me?”

Yaz rolled her eyes. “That’s gonna do wonders for your ego.”

The Doctor breathed a laugh against Yaz’s throat as her hand dipped beneath the final layer of fabric separating her hand from Yaz’s waiting, wanting nerves. Yaz keened into her touch, and gasped when the Doctor attached her lips to the sensitive skin beneath her ear. Breathy panting became barely contained whimpers as the Doctor worked up to a relentless pace, unravelling Yaz thread by thread and savouring the rapt contortions of her face as she edged towards her climax. 

“You close?” the Doctor grunted.

“I’m close,” panted Yaz, “I’m _so_ close, Doctor. Keep going, keep—”

The door handle jerked. 

Yaz’s eyelids flew open and she shoved the Doctor off her, sending her sprawling backwards onto the floor. “Shirt!” she whisper-shouted, but the Doctor wasn’t quick enough at blinking away her confusion before Sonya waltzed in. She froze in the hallway. She took in a dishevelled Yaz on the sofa, a shirtless Doctor on the floor — and the sound of her bubblegum popping filled the volume of the room. 

“Oh. My. God.”

“Son—”

Sonya slipped out her phone, and Yaz wasn’t fast enough to lunge for her before she snapped a picture of the mortifying scene. “That’s gonna make some _great_ bribe material,” she announced, holding her phone away when Yaz reached for it and shooting her a disgusted look. “Right on the bloody sofa, Yaz. Really? You are so grim.” 

“ _Delete_ that picture, Sonya, I’m serious.”

Sonya hummed. “You can start by sending me Ryan’s number — then I’ll think about it.” 

With that, Sonya strode off down the hall and Yaz flinched at the sound of her door slamming. She turned to the Doctor, who was still sitting half dressed on the floor with a very clueless frown on her face, and sighed. 

“Does that mean we can’t finish?”

“ _Doctor_! My sister’s just walked in on us.”

The Doctor considered this with a furrowed brow. When she looked back up at Yaz, her eyes were aglow with an incorrigible gleam. “TARDIS?”

Yaz’s shoulders slumped. “ _Fine._ TARDIS.”


	7. what's the colour of your sky?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "cage" + TCC angst from @jeyfeather1234 on tumblr
> 
> angst without comfort, semi-hopeful ending

Yasmin Khan (my Yaz), **  
**

What’s the colour of your sky tonight?

Do you remember when I used to ask you that? Do you remember when you told me your secret — that thing you were so ashamed of, that would sometimes haunt you in your nightmares — and cried because you had never told anybody but your family before? I do. I remember. 

I remember that I reacted the wrong way. You probably thought I’d hug you and, probably, I should have. I wanted to. Only, I worried that if I did, I wouldn’t be able to stay strong for you and I thought what you needed more than anything in that moment was for somebody to be strong when you couldn’t. 

Somebody to believe in. 

I couldn’t very well go wrecking your steadfast faith in me by sobbing on your shoulder, Yaz, could I? So we devised a way to talk about it without actually talking about it. 

I’d ask you what the colour of your sky was, and you would tell me. If it was taffy pink and aglow with three setting suns like that evening we spent on the shores of Al’aiko — you were happy. You felt safe. If it was overcast and dull, you felt gloomy. You needed a distraction; to be exhilarated. I always had a thrill on hand for you, didn’t I?

But if your sky was black, starless, moonless — you were my mirror’s image. I ached for you on those days, Yaz. I really did. 

In hindsight, I should have hugged you. I should have hugged you then and I should have hugged you every day since and I especially should have hugged you that last day on Gallifrey. I’m not sure I’ll ever get the chance again. 

This letter will never find you. Still, I have to write it. For me. They wouldn’t give me a pen (wiser than they look, these folks) so I’m using charcoal and scrap paper. Even if they hadn’t given me this, I’d yank out a tooth and carve my message in the walls because you’re the only one who can help me right now, Yaz. 

Just as you’re the only one who can hurt me. 

The prison itself isn’t all that bad. Promise. I’ve a view of the stars, and as long as I know that the stars in my sky are still burning, I know there’s hope. I don’t like to be caged up, true, and I intend to escape. I intend to fight like hell and find my way back to you. All of you. As soon as I figure out how. 

I thought it was nice of you, at first, to visit me. Oh, how overjoyed I felt to open my eyes and find you standing there — you, Yasmin Khan, flashing your pearly whites and offering me your outstretched hand. A lifeline.

Until I reached for you — and my hand fell through. 

Your smile turned dark, Yaz. I’ve never seen it like that. It looks so alien on you. And the words falling from your lips, they aren’t yours. They’re too ugly. Too harsh. Ugly is a language you’ve never spoken so it took me a while to understand — but now I do.

You didn’t come for me. 

It isn’t really you, is it? It’s me. It’s a projection of my self-loathing using your likeness as a vessel because it knows that’s the way to hurt me most. Remind me not to send my self-loathing a Christmas card this year, will you? 

As I write to you, Yaz, you stand over my shoulder and you read these words and you mock them — because I could never talk to you when it mattered most, because I was never a friend to you; never honest or open or available. As I write to you, I scream at you, and you break down in tears and still I can’t hug you. 

I ask you the colour of your sky and you ask me to open a vein and find out. I ask you the colour of your sky and you say close your eyes and find out. I ask you the colour of your sky and you say you don’t have one anymore. 

I hope that isn’t true.

I hope your sky is brilliant blue without me. I hope it’s fuzzy peach at the edges and I hope you dip your paintbrush in and add your own bold strokes every now and again. The picture should change, Yaz. It shouldn’t stay the same. So if there are grey days, that’s okay. Endless summers cause droughts. If there are cold days, that’s fine. Too much heat and life withers up and dies. If there are dark days, light a candle, and I’ll choose a star and call it your flame. 

Once, you told me your favourite colour was warm amber like the inside of the TARDIS. Now you tell me it’s warm amber like the blazing ruins of my home. If I could see you now, I’d tell you my favourite colour is your hand in my hand. Forgive me if that’s a little cheesy. 

Forgive me for it all. 

I hope to write to you again, Yaz. I hope to soothe your ghost with these words. I hope to placate her until I can smother her in the space between our bodies when I finally give you that hug I’ve been threatening for too long. 

For now, I’ll seek out the flame of your candle in my endless night sky and make you a 50p guarantee: I will come home to you, Yaz. Whatever the colour of your sky, I’ll crash right through it and I’ll land on your doorstep and we’ll try this thing again. I promise. 

‘Til then, I wonder, could you be a little kinder? If not to me, then to yourself. You are the universe, Yasmin Khan. Your sky is what you make it. 

All my love eternally,

The Doctor (kisses)


	8. yearning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "yearning" for anon
> 
> angst, pining

The only time the Doctor ever held Yaz’s hand was when they were in danger. 

Whether they were charging headfirst into the anti-zone, escaping a swarming Skithra ship, or simply running for their lives — Yaz’s hand was fair game to the Doctor. Because it was necessary. It was convenient. Easier, Yaz supposed, for the Doctor to keep her close and be sure she was forever just one step behind her. 

In the midst of her terror, in the clutches of a drug so potent as adrenaline, Yaz shouldn’t have had enough cognisance left over to spare a thought to the remarkably cool temperature of the Doctor’s palm. 

She should have been too occupied with imminent threat to notice how calloused the Doctor’s fingers were and how it felt to have her far rougher fingertips slot neatly between the valleys of Yaz’s knuckles. Each brush of the Doctor’s thumb or light squeeze or gentle tug surely should not have found board in a mind so hectic with fear and hazard and thrill. 

And yet.

At first, Yaz put it down to her Yorkshire sensibility. She wasn’t a hugger, she wasn’t overly or outwardly affectionate by nature — she certainly wasn’t a hand holder. So, she wasn’t used to it. It was foreign. It was brand new and shiny and as exhilarating as whatever mortal peril they were facing off with that day. 

Until she started to notice more than just her hands. 

It began with the rolling up of the Doctor’s sleeves; the way her muscles tensed and her toned arms flexed with every movement or wild gesticulation. Yaz began to wonder what those powerful arms would feel like wrapped around her ribs or winding around her waist. 

Next, Yaz caught herself noticing the Doctor’s collarbones. Sharp. Jutting. Divine. Right below the curve of her throat. Oh, and she certainly noticed that, too. By the time she began to idly wonder what it would feel like to nuzzle her nose into the crook of the Doctor’s neck, she was too far gone to stop herself from contemplating jawlines, cheekbones, eyes, lips. 

When she started to think about the Doctor’s lips, she finally accepted her constant observations and preoccupations for what they were. Yaz was falling for her best friend. Plummeting, really — with a distant lack of grace.

She told herself it was okay that the Doctor would never reciprocate such sentiments. She told herself it was fine that she’d never know what it was to press her ear to the Doctor’s chest and close her eyes to the song of her steady, double heartbeat and write a thousand sonnets in that same wonderful cadence between one beat and the next. 

Yaz convinced herself that she didn’t mourn her own sanity each time she accepted all over again that she’d never get to explore and map out and commit to memory every inch of the Doctor’s skin and the constellations created by her moles and freckles and dimples. 

So long as, every now and again, she got to hold the Doctor’s hand.

And maybe the Doctor allowed her that small, sacred luxury on purpose. Maybe she understood, the first time Yaz inched her hand closer to the Doctor’s across the plush fabric of the sofa in the TARDIS’ fourth cinema, the exact nature of the comfort she was seeking. Because when their pinky fingers brushed together beneath the blanket, the Doctor didn’t pull away. Didn’t blink. She didn’t even tear her eyes from the screen. 

Instead, the Doctor edged her own hand a little closer until her little finger was draped over Yaz’s. By the second act, she’d allowed Yaz to claim her ring finger.

Act three — the Doctor’s hand turned on its back and Yaz ghosted the pad of her index finger along her heartline and Yaz couldn’t say what the film was about if you were to ask. She could, however, recount the infinite lovely hurts she felt when the Doctor wove her fingers through Yaz’s at long last and sealed the gaps between their hands. She could tell you that when she thought she saw the corner of the Doctor’s mouth twitch in an almost-smile, she visualised the epithet on her own headstone with visceral clarity: _here lies Yasmin Khan — she was in love. She didn’t make it._

Come the rolling of the credits, the Doctor looked at Yaz. In flakes of honey-gold and between wider strokes of hazel, Yaz sought an opening. A door left ajar. A window unlocked. A single chink in the fence that she might work into a wider breach and weasel her way through, barbs and jagged edges and razor sharp wire be damned. If there were any to be found, they were gone in a blink. 

The Doctor smiled and it broke whatever fragments of Yaz’s heart remained. The Doctor reclaimed her hand and it fed those fragments through a wood chipper. The Doctor got to her feet and nodded at Yaz as if to say, _sorry you’re in pain. Sorry it’s my fault. Sorry I can’t do anything about it except hold your hand beneath a blanket. Thanks for the company. Goodnight._

“Goodnight,” said Yaz, but really what she was saying was, _it’s not your fault. Don’t feel bad for me. Just hold my hand again sometime, and maybe one day it won’t hurt so much. Maybe one day I’ll fall out of love._

_Maybe one day you might love me back._


	9. am i your lockscreen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "Am I your lockscreen?" for anon 
> 
> total fluff

“Yaz? Why did you turn your torch off?”

“I didn’t — my phone died. Gonna have to use yours.”

Plunged into the deep shadows of the library, they came to a standstill in the historical fiction section. They hadn’t wanted to turn the main lights on for fear of getting caught sneaking around after hours, but the Doctor was adamant that here, they would find the best weapons against their current foe that one could ever hope to brandish. Books, of course.

“Um. Maybe we should just turn the big lights on,” suggested the Doctor.

“Yeah, that’s a brilliant way to get noticed when we’re tryna sneak about. Just give us your phone if y’don’t know how to work the torch.”

After a moment, during which Yaz heard nothing but the rustling of the Doctor’s coat as she searched herself, the Doctor’s phone screen lit up and she handed it to Yaz. Yaz was about to swipe up when—

“Doctor…” she began, her frown illuminated in the soft glow of the screen. “Is that — am I your lock screen?”

The Doctor cleared her throat and Yaz turned the torch on to better gauge her expression. She was scratching the side of her neck self-consciously. “Uh, is it? Must be. Yeah. Yes. That’s you, all right.”

“You can’t turn your flashlight on but you know how to change your lock screen?” queried Yaz, all too aware that she was focusing on the wrong matter.

“Sonya showed me how to do it.”

Yaz snorted. “No wonder it’s such a terrible picture.”

“What?” The Doctor took a step closer to peer down at her lock screen. “This is my favourite picture of you — it’s the only one I have where you’re laughing. I keep it as a reminder.”

Yaz glanced sideways at the Doctor as they set off through the aisles. “A reminder?”

The Doctor shrugged. “To make y’laugh more,” she explained meekly. “My base minimum’s once a day but if I’m on form, I can get a lot higher than that. Current record’s eighteen.” The Doctor paused to consider. “Maybe that were the giggle pollen though.”

“But — but why?” wondered Yaz, attempting not to fixate on the revelation that the Doctor would count how many times a day she could get Yaz to laugh.

“Laughter’s good for your health, Yaz!” announced the Doctor. “And, to be honest, your laugh is positively adorable. One of my favourite sounds. The days when you don’t laugh at all — well, it’s like a movie with no soundtrack. Bit rubbish, init?”

Yaz was at a loss for how to react — except to make a mental note to always laugh more, laugh harder, laugh freer in the Doctor’s presence. This was a task made infinitely easier moments later when the Doctor climbed a rickety ladder up the shelves and stretched for the specific volume they were after, only for the ladder to topple beneath her and send her plummeting towards the ground. Yaz caught her.

Wide-eyed in her arms, the Doctor held a hand to her chest and Yaz burst out laughing.

“Ooh, that’s laugh number three today!” grinned the Doctor.

“Yeah?” Yaz hummed. “Y’know what? I think I’m gonna set myself a challenge, an’ all.”

“What’s that, then?”

Leaning down, Yaz endowed the lightest kiss upon the tip of the Doctor’s nose and watched a tide of crimson submerge her cheeks when she pulled away.

“To make you blush like that.”


	10. kissing for cover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "kissing to hide from bad guys" for @jolivira 
> 
> fluff, first kiss

**Br** eathless, Yaz and the Doctor burst through the ballroom doors and skidded to a stop atop polished marble.

Yaz spared a fearful glance over her shoulder. “They’re right behind us, Doctor!”

“All right, not to worry — just blend into the crowd, yeah? There’s loads of people about!” remarked the Doctor, spreading her arms out at the packed floor upon which a merry crowd danced to jaunty, live music performed by a band onstage. “They’ll never spot us! Fancy a twirl, madame?”

Without waiting for a response, the Doctor took Yaz’s hand and twirled her with expert ease. When she drew her back in, Yaz allowed the Doctor to lead her in some semblance of a ballroom dance and they swept their way to the centre of the room. Bodies pressed flush, their eyes roamed anxiously about the room as they awaited the arrival of their pursuers. Yaz didn’t know if it was the threat, the thrill, or her proximity to the Doctor that had made such a nervous wreck of her.

“Never knew you had so many moves,” she quipped, hoping a bit of banter might cut through a tension she may have been imagining.

She and the Doctor walked slow circles around one another with their palms not quite touching and Yaz pretended not to be so affected by the impish grin the Doctor shot her way. 

“Ah, you pick up a few things here and there when you travel as much as I do, Yaz. Never underestimate the power of a good dance.” One of her hands slipped to Yaz’s waist and they stepped back up to one another. “I once saved a planet from eradication by doin’ the jitterbug for three hours straight. Ever tell you that story?”

“Definitely never heard that one,” laughed Yaz — and it seemed she’d have to wait even further to be regaled by such a tale when the gold-faced clock atop the stage struck 6:34 and all around them, the crowd began to disentangle from the mass and pair up. “Um. What’s happening?”

Pulling away from Yaz, the Doctor frowned at the clock and the surrounding attendees in turn. When realisation struck, she slapped her forehead with her palm. 

“Oh! Forgot all about this. It’s — well, it’s kind of a local custom. Any time durin’ the thirteenth day of the thirteenth month of the year, if the clock strikes a number that adds up to thirteen, you’re s’posed to, uh…”

Finishing her sentence became a redundant task when each of the couples around them began to lock lips with not a single modicum of shame or modesty in sight. Yaz didn’t know where to look. 

“Yeah — that,” said the Doctor, offering Yaz an abashed smile. “Thirteen’s an inherently romantic number to this lot. It’s an inherently romantic number anyway, y’ask me.” 

Now that they’d stopped dancing, Yaz and the Doctor stood an exaggerated distance apart — hands in pockets, eyes turned away; colour suffusing their cheeks and ears. Sparing them from a single more agonising moment of directionless discomfort, Yaz spotted some of the troops that had been on their tail barreling through the doors and peering over the upstairs balconies. 

“Doctor, they’re here!” she hissed, tugging the Doctor’s sleeve and nodding her head in the direction of their would-be assailants. “They’re gonna spot us! We’re stood here like bloody spare parts and everyone else is—”

The Doctor swept Yaz off her feet. 

Literally. 

Yaz elicited a startled gasp when the Doctor slipped an arm around her back, cradled her neck with her hand, and dipped her so low she thought she might hit the floor. But the Doctor had her. She needn’t ever have worried. 

“Sorry, Yaz,” whispered the Doctor in earnest. “Really.”

The Doctor kissed Yaz before Yaz even registered the apology. With her body tilted back and her heart soaring so high, Yaz felt caught between two paradoxical motions: falling and flying. Whichever it was, vertigo took a dizzy hold of her and she lost sight of the ground amidst the atmospheric pressure of the Doctor’s lips on her own. 

It ended too soon. It ended when their pursuers stormed into the next room and not a second later. The Doctor withdrew and lifted Yaz back up. Solid ground beneath her feet — and yet, still, it didn’t feel that way. 

Least of all when Yaz noticed a smudge of her lip gloss clinging to the Doctor’s mouth.

Clearing her throat, the Doctor offered Yaz an apologetic wince. “Sorry ‘bout that, Yaz. Didn’t have time to clear it with you. You okay?”

Yaz felt like a lovesick teenager when, unthinking, she brought a finger up to her own mouth — where it hovered over phantom sensations and then sharply withdrew once she returned to sense and realised the Doctor was closely watching her. Yaz nodded. “I’m okay.”

“Right, good. Excellent!” enthused the Doctor; lacking her usual conviction. “So, um. Onwards?”

Spinning on her heels, the Doctor started towards the door. She didn’t get very far before Yaz clasped her hand within her own to stay her. The Doctor turned, looked at their joined hands; lifted her scared-to-hope eyes to Yaz’s face.

Heedless of her nerves — of the fact that her heart was still very much up in the air and she couldn’t figure out whether it was looking towards the stars or the earth — Yaz tugged the Doctor back towards her. “I reckon,” she dared to chime, “there’s still a handful of seconds left ‘til 6:35.”

After a blink, bemusement gave way to a brilliant, ear-to-ear beam and the Doctor lifted her hands to Yaz’s cheeks. “Then let’s not waste a single one, eh?”

Lips met once again and this time, when Yaz kissed the Doctor back, she realised that she had never really been falling. Nor had she been flying. No, as her tongue brushed over stardust and sugar and solace like no other, Yaz knew that all along, she had been floating.

Adrift in the universe.

And the Doctor? She _was_ the universe.


	11. feet first, don't fall / keep close, stand tall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "feet first, don't fall [...] keep close, stand tall" for @how-to-sit-gay on tumblr
> 
> fluff, very very minor angst

A lesson in the art of safe thrill-seeking, is what the Doctor had called it.

Only, as she stood 14,000 feet above the ground and peered anxiously through the open hatch of a moving plane, Yaz didn’t feel very safe.

Less so when the Doctor kept saying things like, “Not to worry, Yaz! I’m fully licensed. Well. Sort of. They failed me a few dozen times but that’s only ‘cause I kept doing flips. Not sure they ever did licence me in the end, come to think of it.”

Yaz was strapped to the Doctor, her back pressed flush against the Doctor’s front through the thick material of their jumpsuits. It was freezing, and Yaz’s heart was racing, and the Doctor was positively giddy.

“Why are we doing this again?” Yaz shouted

“I told you, Yaz. There are good ways to get your adrenaline fix and there are bad ways. This is a good way!”

It had come about after a recent adventure gone awry. Yaz had gone against the Doctor’s wishes, jumped feet first into the thick of a situation she knew was dangerous, and almost ended up dead because of it. If the Doctor hadn’t swooped in at the last second, reached for Yaz, clamped a hand around her wrist before she plunged to her death — well. It didn’t bear to think about.

So, the Doctor had taken to showing Yaz better ways to seek the thrill without the risk, hoping that when an actual dangerous situation arose in the future, she wouldn’t be so rash to dive in without all the necessary safety precautions. Like, apparently, being physically leashed to the Doctor.

“Y’ready?” shouted the Doctor.

“No!”

She didn’t have to look to know the Doctor was grinning; could feel her body shaking with laughter. “On three…”

“Oh, god.”

“Two…”

“Please don’t let me end up dead.”

“One!”

They pushed off the hatch — and then they were flying. No, falling. But it felt like flying.

Fear, instantly, was replaced with total elation. Yaz felt the rush of air beneath her as they plummeted through clear blue sky towards gradually nearing pastures. The wind stole the laughter from her lungs. She looked out at the world, so small and distant and unimportant compared with how mighty she felt just then. The Doctor — the wings at her back — was the only one as mighty and as untouchable as she.

When the Doctor eventually pulled the parachute free, they drifted slowly towards the ground. Yaz didn’t quite get the footing right and so they ended up tumbling over one another — landing in a heap of tangled limbs and parachute strings on the warm grass.

Rather than even attempt to disentangle themselves, they erupted into a fit of laughter the moment their eyes met and the Doctor — half-straddling one of Yaz’s legs — pulled her in for a clumsy hug.

“Did you like it?”

“Can we go again?”

The Doctor grinned. “Absolutely, Yaz! As many times as you want, s’long as you make me a promise.” At that, she let Yaz go and struggled to an upright position, unclasping the chute from her pack and removing her helmet.

Yaz sat up and removed her own helmet. “What is it?”

The Doctor fixed her with a pair of suddenly somber eyes. “If you need to go a little bit crazy every now and again, then fine. But only like this. Only with me. I don’t want you getting reckless on me, Yasmin Khan. D’you understand? Too many people I’ve cared about—“

“I won’t be one of them,” asserted Yaz. She reached for the Doctor’s hands. “I promise.”

Smiling down at their interlocked fingers, the Doctor allowed Yaz to press a brief kiss to the top of her bright pink nose.

“Now,” said Yaz, getting to her feet and offering the Doctor her hand, “what’s next on the agenda?”

She helped the Doctor up —and though their feet were back on the ground and they were flying no more, Yaz didn’t think she’d ever stood so tall as she did when she stood side by side with the woman who loved her enough to fall with her.


	12. possessed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "13 getting possessed and taunting Yaz" for @jeyfeather1234 on tumblr
> 
> hurt/no comfort, angst

Yaz collapsed onto one of the luminous hexagonal steps with her head in her hands, exhaling a tremor of a sigh through parted fingers. Black eyes plagued her memory — and deeds blacker, still. 

“Tough one, that,” muttered the Doctor, hands buried in the pockets of her culottes. She eyed Yaz with pursed lips. “You okay?”

“God, that were _awful_ ,” Yaz croaked, lifting her head to reveal an expression one might only describe as haunted through and through. “I don’t understand — why were they doing those things? Messing with those people for no reason?”

After responding to a distress signal incoming from a spacecraft drifting off course, Yaz and the Doctor’s investigation revealed that half the crew had been turned into vessels for incorporeal monsters with only one intent: to cause harm. To turn man against man; friend against friend. 

“Some creatures thrive on pain, Yaz,” sighed the Doctor, taking a seat on the step beside Yaz and giving her knee a squeeze. “It’s like a drug to ‘em. But we got ‘em all, eh?”

Indeed, the Doctor had been able to figure out a way to kill the monsters without hurting the hosts. She’d whipped up a fast-acting miracle vaccine on the TARDIS — but not before some serious emotional damage had been done. It was a bloodbath when they got there. Yaz shuddered involuntarily. 

The Doctor put her arm around Yaz. “It’s okay. We’re safe, now. You don’t have to be afraid,” she assured her softly. “You never have to be afraid when you’re with me.” When she brushed a lock of hair out of Yaz’s face, Yaz’s body went rigid. She wasn’t used to the Doctor being so physically affectionate. She certainly wasn’t used to the tenderness with which she regarded her; the amber glow of the TARDIS soaking into the concerned crease between her brow.

“Are _you_ okay?” asked Yaz.

“‘Course I am. I’m with you.” The Doctor held Yaz’s chin lightly between thumb and forefinger and pinned her to the spot with adoring eyes. “Y’know I love you, Yaz. Don’t you?”

Yaz choked on her next breath. “I — you _what_?”

“Always have.”

“Doctor—”

“Shh, it’s okay.” Stroking her thumb across Yaz’s cheek, the Doctor sent Yaz a shy smile and then leaned in. Paralysed by shock, Yaz was unable to do anything but let the Doctor kiss her. Soft lips pressed up against hers. For one long, selfish second, Yaz allowed herself this lie. She allowed herself to pretend. Allowed her heart to break like porcelain. 

It wasn’t until she felt the Doctor’s lips begin to twist into a wicked grin against her mouth that — with a profoundly heavy heart — she slipped a hand into her jacket pocket, popped the cap on her last syringe, and plunged it into the Doctor’s neck.

The Doctor’s eyes snapped open. 

Pitch dark. 

Soulless. 

She fell backwards with a pained cry, hand flying to her throat. Discreetly wiping a lone tear from her face, Yaz watched the Doctor pluck the needle from her neck with trembling fingers. Black gave way to bright hazel-gold as the monster in the Doctor withered and died before her eyes. Doubled over and gasping for breath, the Doctor fixed her gaze on Yaz.

“How — how did you know?” she panted.

“You’re the bravest person I know, Doctor,” Yaz began around a heartrendingly hollow smile, “but you’d never be brave enough to love me.”


	13. dick biscuit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "dick biscuit" for @actuallymee on tumblr
> 
> fluff, comfort, very minor angst

“Shit, Yaz — I think she’s coming.”

“Close the lid, Ryan!”

As the Doctor sauntered into the kitchen, Yaz, Ryan, and Graham all abruptly turned and formed a barrier between her and the island. They offered their best it-wasn’t-me smiles and failed to appear casual.

Suspicious, the Doctor looked between them with a frown. “Right, what’ve you done?”

“Us? Nowt.”

“Fancy a cuppa, did you, Doc?” queried Graham. “Go on, I’ll bring it out.”

Yaz was the first to peel herself away from the island. “Babe, why don’t we go down to the rainforest for a walk? Said you were gonna show me some rare bird or something, right?”

“A winged hexapod,” she corrected, twisting out of Yaz’s way when she tried to guide her to the door and attempting to peer past Ryan and Graham. They shuffled appropriately and she arched a brow at them. “Oh, really? Look, if you’ve caused another interdimensional rift by pressing the wrong bloody button on the microwave again, I’d rather you just tell me now.”

Ryan and Graham exchanged faux-confused glances.

“We dunno what you’re on about, Doc.”

“Just about to make breakfast,” said Ryan.

“Babe—“

Again, the Doctor shrugged Yaz off and, with a scoff, started past the three of them. “If time and space almost collapses again ‘cause you lot wanted beans on toast—“

“Doc, hang about.”

“Doctor, wait!”

She pushed past them and her eyes landed on that which they had been hiding from her. It was a baby pink box decorated with vertical white stripes, the name of a bakery embossed on the front. The Doctor lifted the tag and read her own name. “You… you bought me something?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at them with half a hopeful smile on her face.

“Uh, well—“ Yaz grimaced— “we tried.”

“We know how hard these past few months have been,” Ryan said.

“Yeah, and we wanted to let you know how much we appreciate everything you’ve done for us,” added Graham.

“And given how much of a sugar-junkie you are, we thought we’d get in some of your favourites since the dispenser’s been on the fritz.” Yaz came to stand beside the Doctor, shoving her hands in her pockets. “Only — there may have been a slight miscommunication.”

The Doctor lifted the lid. She blinked. “They’re…”

“Dick biscuits,” sighed Yaz, pursing her lips. “Yeah.”

Inside the box were several layers of custard creams, each of them phallic in shape and a little overstuffed with cream filling. The Doctor stared at them.

“Listen, I thought they were asking if I wanted ‘em to be metallic. Not phallic. If I’d have known—“

“What on earth is a metallic custard cream, Ryan?” demanded Yaz.

Ryan shrugged helplessly. “I dunno! Thought they might give it shiny frosting or somin’.”

“He’s got a point,” Graham granted with a tilt of his head. “You never seen Cake Boss? They can do some right mad things with food these days.”

As the three of them bickered amongst themselves about cakes and frosting and blame, the Doctor turned around. Looked around at her friends. Her team. Her fam. Blunder or no, it had been a selfless gesture. They were reaching out to her — because she had been so far removed of late. They were making an effort where she had failed to.

Endeared, she slipped a hand into Yaz’s and when the three of them looked at her, they all fell silent.

“Doctor,” whispered Yaz, catching a lone tear on her cheek with her thumb, “you’re crying.”

Pressing into Yaz’s palm, the Doctor smiled a watery smile and looked at each of her three friends in turn. “I guess I’ve been a little distant lately, haven’t I?”

“We get it, mate. You’ve been through it this year.”

“We ain’t tryna push you.”

“We just want to let you know we’re here. We’re all still here,” Yaz went on, squeezing the Doctor’s hand a little tighter, “whenever you need us. Whatever happens.”

Forcing the words through the lump on her throat, the Doctor just about managed to say, “Well, how about we stick the kettle on, grab a couple of, uh, dick biscuits—“ she blushed— “and I can tell you a little bit about it.”

Her fam beamed at her.

“I think we’d really like that.”


	14. we're not just friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "we're not just friends and you fucking know it" for champagne-vagabond on tumblr
> 
> fluff, first kiss

“ _We’re not just friends and you fucking know it_!” screamed the on-screen hero. A little too melodramatic for Yaz’s tastes. 23rd century actors apparently weren’t very well versed in the art of nuance.

“This film is ridiculous,” criticised the Doctor, shoving another handful of popcorn into her mouth. “They’ve been to the ends of the earth together, risked their lives several times, and haven’t stopped giving one another the eyes for the entire film — and we’re supposed to believe they aren’t aware of how they feel? Not very realistic. These protagonists are idiots.”

Yaz glanced across at her. They were sitting side by side in the TARDIS’ viewing room, on the front sofa with a blanket draped over them. “I feel like it happens more often than you think,” she mumbled.

The Doctor scoffed. “If somebody looked at me like that—”

“Like what?”

“Like—” When the Doctor’s eyes flitted across at Yaz, who was gazing at her with no less reverence than usual; who sat and hoped and feared that maybe, at long last, her oblivious friend might finally get the hint, the Doctor’s conviction waned. “Like…”

Yaz arched an expectant brow, and the Doctor swallowed her mouthful noisily.

“Oh,” she said.

Throat dry, Yaz fidgeted with her cuticles and looked down at her lap. “Like I said, Doctor, it happens more often than you think.”

“You — but—” Head clearly scrambled, the Doctor picked up the remote and muted the TV. She shifted so that her whole body was facing Yaz, and Yaz didn’t dare gauge the look on her face. “How long?” she asked quietly. Softly.

“Since day one,” confessed Yaz, and her chest constricted with the painful truth of it.

The Doctor reeled back, wide-eyed. “I’m the idiot protagonist,” she breathed, every syllable coloured in shock. Her eyes fell over Yaz once more and softened at the edges. “But, for the record, so are you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yasmin Khan—” the Doctor shook her head with a gentle laugh— “If we had an audience right now, they’d be screamin’ at the bloody screen.”

Yaz searched the Doctor’s face, disbelieving. “You mean…”

Grinning, the Doctor shifted a little closer to Yaz. “I mean…” She rested her arm on the sofa next to Yaz’s head. Yaz watched her every movement attentively and tried to calm the manic paroxysms of her heart but when the Doctor leaned in, that became a futile task.

When the Doctor’s fingers curled around Yaz’s neck, the hitch of her breath was audible to both. Centimetres away, the Doctor looked to Yaz with a silent question leaping from intense, golden eyes. Yaz could only nod.

The Doctor kissed her.

It was a butter popcorn kiss. It was sweet and rich and indulgent, but it wasn’t the sugar that gave Yaz such a dizzying high. No, it was the relief. It was the unadulterated, ecstatic relief of the Doctor’s cool, firm lips pressed up against her own and the knowledge that this was the scene where the hero gets the girl and the audience breathes a collective sigh — because, _finally_. Finally. Finally.

Pulling away just enough to break the contact of their lips, the Doctor offered a sheepish smile. “Maybe I owe this movie an apology.”

“Maybe,” countered Yaz, already in the process of pulling the Doctor back in by her shirt, “you should just shut up and kiss me again.”

**Author's Note:**

> prompt me on tumblr @freefallthirteen


End file.
